


ophelia

by lilium_parvum



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9429482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilium_parvum/pseuds/lilium_parvum
Summary: "They were two poor boys, victims of their time, meeting under a curving, twisting tree in the early morning haze, craving each other's foreign touches."Viktor had never seen someone so new to him, so unfamiliar.  The boy with eyes the color of towering trees that poke the sky and cheeks like roses.  Yuuri had never seen someone so ornate, so beautiful, like precious stones.(Renaissance AU with a few Shakespeare and Ren. Faire references tossed about.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey hey
> 
> i've been volunteering with the same renaissance faire in my area for five years now. i've learned so much, and i thought it'd be an interesting au for these two lovely boys. i tried to keep it as historically accurate as possible, but obviously there are some discrepancies. if you want me to clarify on any of these, i can ;) i love me some good renaissance convos!
> 
> lily

The air in summer, thick with dirt, sunk straight to his lungs. Breathing had become somewhat of a chore for Viktor Nikiforov. Rain or shine, the weather bore down on his chest, heavy as a king’s coffin. He’d know, of course. He’d been digging graves for as long as he could remember. Viktor assisted with the burial of a king once, when he was a child. His only recollection of the event was his father dressing him in blue--an array of azures and frigid tones--and bowing low as the Roman-style, golden casket was lowered deep into the earth of the castle’s yard, the family tomb.

It was the only burial Viktor had seen in which the deceased had family that missed him, that cried as the last glimmer of sunlight hit the casket. What a sad notion, Viktor thought.

Though, one could argue that the thought of his life was a sad notion. Death occupied his thoughts constantly. But, his father would say, “‘tis a part of the trade.”

His father. The man with the needle-grey eyes, pupils like pinpoints and wrinkles creasing his forehead. The man from the land where people spoke in thick, rugged tongues, their r’s rolling like the snow-covered hills they called home. His father’s voice rang clear from just inside the house, the characteristic harshness of his speech resonating in Viktor’s ears. “Viktor!” He shouted. “Lord Morse. His fair bride, Mary, has perished most dreadfully. Our presence is requested, for he'd like to have the funeral services anon. Come hither, we depart with haste!”

“Aye, father.”

With those words, Viktor walked briskly to his father. The pair trekked to the residence of the Morses, a farming family with a small fortune in both money and laborers.

As his feet pushed him forward, Viktor was able to grasp his surroundings. The first sunny day in months. The trees around were vivid, viridescent remnants of what once was--green, uninhabited, lush, uninhibited. The way nature was always meant to be. A breeze blew through and Viktor’s hair fell messily in his eyes, splayed out across his shiny forehead. For a reason unknown to even himself, he was born with grey hair. His neighbors frowned upon this for quite some time, until a clergyman proclaimed that it indicated a true child of God, a blessing to them all.

The farm was much larger than the last time Viktor had seen it. The first thing that Viktor noticed was the many small homes now surrounding it, stuffed full of scrappy peasants similar to himself. They filed out into the fields for the last time of the day, just as the sun disappeared behind the luxurious, black velvet night.

His father’s voice jolted him out of his trance. “Viktor, hark, I will speak with Lord Morse. Prithee, stay hither and listen if I am to call upon thee.”

Viktor nodded. He watched as his father trudged to the door of the mansion. He saw the standard bow his father always gives, and his entry into the house. A pleasant exchange of reverence.

Then, Viktor’s attention diverted to the workers. He scanned their faces and watched as they performed tasks such as feeding the animals and tending to crops. None of the faces were memorable to him. They were all similar with their reddish, burnt skin and matted, patchy hair. However, upon turning around, Viktor saw a man unlike any he’d seen before.

His hair was jet black and his skin was darker than any Viktor had seen before, but it was still relatively fair. He had a flat button nose and almond-shaped eyes, deep-set in his hollowed cheeks. His lips were puckered into position like a perfect painting and, along with his gaunt cheeks, were like wildflowers dotting the edge of the brook. This man was exotic to Viktor, so rare and beautiful that he seemed almost untouchable, unapproachable. He was quiet and possessed an unspoken allure that pulled Viktor in with every subtle action.

After having stared at the stranger for an uncomfortably long amount of time, Viktor’s father met him outside. The sun made its way behind the trees and below the ground. It was pitch black when Viktor reached his shabby home, the image of the foreign boy running its way through his mind over and over again, like stones bouncing in the rushing brook.

Tomorrow, he'd speak to the boy. Viktor decided that he would tell him that he reminded him of a red rose, sweeter than the summer dribbling away like fruit down a child’s chin.

-

The stranger’s name was Yuuri. He was from a land in Asia and came to England on a boat loaded with spices. Viktor had learned this when he approached the boy, shortly before the burial. He had a cute, closed mouth smile and a permanent blush that shifted between prominent and more prominent when complimented. Yuuri spoke extremely limited English but very clearly aimed to get better. And, much to Viktor’s delight, he agreed to meet Viktor by the brook early each morning, just before sunrise. “Yuuri, you are most beauteous in appearance, bearing likeness to the freshest of rouged roses. Perhaps my behaviors are not well met and regrettable, however, I do wish to speak with thou most anon.”

Like summer dusting Yuuri’s face. “G-Grammarcy, but I am most--are you sure this is alright?”

Viktor bit his lip. “It isn’t.”

 

“This sort of behavior is--”

“Regrettable. We’d be frowned upon, should anyone find out. Called sinners. But, I suppose a bit of regrettable behavior is exciting.”

With a wave and a grin, Viktor bid him adieu.

The burial was solemn, but no tears were shed. The men of the family held their heads high and their backs straight, clearly flaunting what was left of their masculinity. The women clutched to each other tightly, however, none of them cried. Viktor could hardly focus on his job. He stared at the dirt settled under his chipped fingernails and ran his dusty fingers along his less than clean teeth.

At last, the grueling funeral was finished. He walked home with his father, silence cutting the air like a blade, and waited for morning to come. For the first bird to chirp.

When it did, Viktor crept out of the house, more secretive than the sly mouse, grabbed a small candle, and made his way to the brook. The patch of flowers, now in bloom and vibrant shades of violet, pink, flaming red, and burnt orange--a symphony of harmonious shades bunched together like freckles. And he waited. It felt like an eternity to Viktor, standing there and twiddling his thumbs as he attempted to locate Yuuri.

Finally, just ahead of him, Viktor could make out Yuuri’s slim features. They were somehow more enchanting in the dim candlelight, the flicker-flicker of the burning-hot flames. Yuuri approached Viktor with a tattered blanket around his shoulders, the same billowy, stained white shirt and moth-eaten brown harem pants on him. Viktor hadn't changed either, of course, because these were the only clothes he had.

They were two poor boys, victims of their time, meeting under a curving, twisting tree in the early morning haze, craving each other's foreign touches.

Viktor quietly walked up to Yuuri. “Good morrow, Yuu-ri.” For a moment, Yuuri grinned.

“Good m-morrow, Viktor.” He seemed almost hesitant in his speech, glancing down at the grass snaking between his bare feet. This made Viktor feel as if Yuuri weren't comfortable here; that he didn't relish this time as Viktor did. Viktor grabbed his hands.

They were jagged rock, cut up by years of toil. Scars marred the back of them and his knuckles were cracked like stones. And, Viktor noticed, they were grayer than the rest of his body.

But Viktor looked at his own hands as well. A scar jutted across the back of his left hand from an accident with his father’s shovel when he was a young boy. They were rough and calloused from gripping the handles of wooden tools and logs.

Yuuri looked at Viktor’s hands touching his, and they made his heart skip. Just slightly. Because the man he saw, made of opals and with sapphires for eyes, held him with intention. Not the intention to throw him onto a cargo ship and send him places he'd rather have avoided, no. Viktor held his hands with care and meaning. Yuuri laced his fingers with Viktor’s to show the feelings that he couldn't communicate to Viktor in his tongue.

The sun now peeked up from beyond the brook, behind the singular tree beside it. Violets, pinks, oranges, golds--more stunning than a dozen nobles--decorated the sky. They shone on the wildflowers and the quiet stream. More birds began to awaken. It was the most tranquil moment of either of their lives. But Viktor new he’d have to go.

“Shall we meet again, fair Yuuri?”

He nodded.

“Tonight, just after sunset, then?”

Another nod. Viktor smiled his characteristic grin and kissed Yuuri’s left hand, letting his lips trail along every scar and busted knuckle, every pained memory of Yuuri’s that Viktor had yet to learn. Yuuri melted into Viktor’s lips caressing his hands; no one had ever touched him so gently, like he were a handsome, soft prince. Viktor stood up, as his father had taught him to, and bowed. “Fare thee anon,”

And Yuuri touched Viktor’s cheek, cold as ice. “Adieu,”

-

Night enveloped England once more, dotting the sky with starry freckles and knotted, curly clouds for hair. Night, to Viktor, wore a black velvet gown and a snood laced with pearls fresh from the sea She enamored Viktor with her ability to hide whatever occurred under her watch. Because what happened at night was to be kept a secret for eternity.

Or, at least, that's what Viktor told himself. It must have been midnight. He followed the familiar path the brook, the only candle in the house melting onto his hands. The dripping wax scorched his cupped hands and pushed him to reach the brook as quickly as possible, though he lived nearly a mile from it.

At last, he reached the covert meeting place. To his surprise, Yuuri was already there, the same blanket draped over his shivering frame. He sat on an old log, just underneath the curvature of the tree, an elm, Viktor learned. “Viktor,” Yuuri sighed, smiling faintly. His lips were chapped and had a split in the middle, but they still took Viktor’s breath away. Yuuri had a way about him, a kind of face that pulled you in with a silk rope and bound you to his sultry half-lidded gazes and subtle smirks.

Which is exactly what brought Viktor to sit next to him on the rotted, damp log. The candle rested on the wet ground and illuminated a portion of Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri’s hand touched Viktor’s face. Traced its way down his flushed cheeks, a finger along his jaw and another tracing Viktor’s bottom lip. “I wish I could say to thee, say to thee how I feel. But I know not the words to do so,” A few moments of lusty silence. Then, Yuuri moved. He pushed a finger to Viktor’s chest, forcing him to lie down on the log. Yuuri crawled onto Viktor’s warm chest, sticky with humidity and sweat, and pressed a kiss to it. Just a peck.

Suddenly, his hands found their way to every inch of Viktor, ever fiber of both of their beings quaking with desire. Yuuri’s mouth outlined the sky with kisses, up from Viktor’s toned chest to his quivering bottom lip. Their lips collided, creating a cosmos within their cavernous kiss, hot and dark like steamy summer nights.

-

Viktor now proclaimed himself a learned man. Learned of love, a trade, and literature. On his typical stroll back from the brook in the morning, he heard a few men reciting sonnets that Viktor thought were divine.

Viktor bowed to the men. “Good sirs, well met. Might I ask what excellent words you are uttering?”

“Sirrah, well met! Rise thee up. This be some selections of the Great Bard’s Hamley.” One of the men responded, a looming figure in layers of red clothing. Viktor thanked them and kept in his mind the many things he'd heard from the men, or rather, the Great Bard.

Viktor realized, on his dusky walk back to the brook, that it was becoming increasingly difficult to spend time without Yuuri. Without his simmering, red-hot fingers holding Viktor’s neck just tight enough to keep him still, to let Yuuri have control. Without his laugh. Thoughts of these things tied Viktor over until he could see Yuuri. At the day’s end and the new day’s beginning. A beautiful sentiment, Viktor thought. Yuuri is a beautiful sentiment.

Yuuri’s blanket was sprawled across the moist grass. He was fast asleep on top of it, one of his arms positioned under his face and the other lying along his hip. His face was relaxed, but with each snore, his nose would crinkle. The moonlight had twisted its way into his locks of inky black hair, splayed out on the blanket.

Viktor sat on the sliver of blanket that was uncovered by Yuuri's form and grabbed onto his free hand. He watched Yuuri intently, taking in every inch of his face. Viktor relished each moment like this, where he could study Yuuri. He learned many things this way.

Like how, when he talked about things he enjoyed, his eyes widened and had an extra sparkle, a twinkle. Or how he'd lick his lips every time he thought of Viktor in a less-than-pure way and caress his face with the softest of motions. His lips like summer strawberries and eyes like sizzling coals. Yuuri, to Viktor, was a painting too stunning for any Michelangelo or Da Vinci to be able to create. No sonnet could capture his essence, and no song could find his melody.

Yuuri stirred awake and grinned. “I apologize for my premature slumber.”

“‘Twas quite alright, beloved, for you're precious to me, like a crown jewel.”

“That's quite entertaining, Viktor, because I did always see sapphires in your eyes and opals as your cheeks.”

With those words, Viktor quivered with desire. Yuuri’s words filled him to the highest point, to love. Yes, love.

“Yuuri, I am in love with you.”

“Excellent. I-I am in love with you, too.”

Viktor grabbed Yuuri by the waist and ran his fingers through Yuuri’s tangled hair. Songs from the travelers that flitted in and out of his town made their way from his throat and Viktor began to sing them with images of Yuuri’s stunning, bare form crossing his mind. The words rolled off of Viktor’s tongue like the rolling brook. The rolling of his father’s r’s.

“Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme,” Viktor began, his voice a dull roar into Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri tightened his grasp on Viktor’s neck and grinned. “Come lift up your voices in chorus with mine, come lift up your voices, all grief to refrain, for we may or might never all meet here again,”

Yuuri chuckled. “Fie, couldn't you choose a more happy tune, love? You've quite a kind voice, though.”

“Alright,” Viktor stood and took Yuuri’s right hand. “Only if you’ll dance with me.”

“Alright.”

Viktor spun Yuuri around the brook until morning flickered in, much longer than either of them had anticipated.

“Shall we run away? I can meet thee in this spot upon the evening, and we can be free.” Viktor asked, sitting near the wildflowers.

Yuuri seemed stunned and confused. “N-Nay. We mustn't.”

“I cannot live without thee, fair Yuuri! I beg of thee, please depart with me. Tonight, under this same tree, let us run.”

Suddenly, Yuuri understood the situation. “A-Aye. Until tonight, Viktor.”

“Until tonight, Yuuri.” Viktor stood up, a muted pink wildflower between his right index finger and thumb and tucked it behind Yuuri’s ear. He pressed a soft kiss to Yuuri’s forehead. “Until tonight..”

-

Yuuri had arrived by the brook before Viktor did. He stood under the elm tree and waited, letting his hands touch the places that Viktor kissed at their last meeting. His hand brushed his own lips, neck, shoulders, chest, thighs. Yuuri couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life with Viktor. It was something he'd hoped for since their first meeting in the same spot, when Viktor let Yuuri’s desire set them free.

The trickle of the quietly rushing water called Yuuri, it seemed. Yuuri stepped in the water and let the cool run over his bare toes. He continued to venture out further and stopped in the middle of the brook, level with his thighs. The water was cold; It felt as if it left him shivering down to the marrow and bone. His lip quivered blue, blue, blue. Yuuri tried to move, but he slipped on one of the rocks beneath him.

Suddenly, he couldn't move. Couldn't see. He could only hear the water rushing above him and feel the stones digging into his tender back. Yuuri’s head spun, but he remembered one thing.

If ever we should meet again,  
By land or by sea,  
I will always remember your kindness to me

And then it was black. A cool, damp black.

-

Viktor arrived nearly tweny minutes later after listening to a wandering minstrel sing and read sonnets. It was silent, eerily silent, and Viktor could see his breath. It was the coldest summer day in weeks.

Viktor looked around the area, listening to the rushing of the brook. He searched for Yuuri. Behind the tree. In the wildflower bed. By the manor. Soon, it became apparent to him that Yuuri wasn’t there. So, he sat on the log and waited.

But it had been ten minutes. And then twenty. Thirty. Viktor was worried.

And then he saw it.

The back of Yuuri’s head, the color of the night sky, with wet, wet hair, face down in the stones of the brook. Unmoving. Viktor bolted towards him, the wind in his lungs torn out by despair and worry. He heaved and took Yuuri, lifeless, in his arms, praying to any deity he could imagine that he was alright.

“Yuuri, Yuuri, my sweet.. Awaken! I beg of thee, please awaken!” He shook Yuuri with all of the force he had. Viktor pressed his ear to Yuuri’s chest. It was silent. Tears welled in his eyes, thick and hot. Tears like pearls, falling from his sapphire eyes and opal skin. He held Yuuri’s body tightly, letting his tears hit Yuuri’s chest.

And Viktor sobbed. It felt as if he’d been alive, innocent, and fresh, like Persephone and had suddenly been dragged to hell--like flames were licking at his insides. But, too there was a feeling of numbness. He looked around and felt dizzy. Nothing was clear in his vision. Just clouded over. He thought it had started to rain. He didn’t know.

At some point, Viktor’s legs willed him to go home. And grab his father’s tools. They made him walk back to their rendezvous point, Yuuri’s body lying where Viktor left it, on the wooden log. Viktor could no longer feel anything except for the pain in his head and the ache in his heart, which he’d assumed wouldn’t ever feel love like this again.

And he dug a grave, six feet long and four feet deep. Yuuri fit well into it. With tears stinging his eyes and rain pelting his face, Viktor managed to bury Yuuri. It wasn’t the pretty casket that Viktor wished he could afford for Yuuri. It wasn’t ornate and gold like the sun. It wasn’t dusted with emeralds. It was a smoothed-over patch of dirt.

Viktor walked to the wildflowers. He picked the prettiest ones, the most vibrant and symmetrical, and scattered them over the grave. And he remembered the troupe that read Shakespeare. He remembered their Hamlet.

“My Yuuri, my Ophelia, sweets to the sweet.”


End file.
